


Let the Rain Fall Ash and Steel

by nxpenthe



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, more people to be added as the story goes haha, the noire/severa is very one sided, who knows lol i came up with the plot today so let's see where it goes tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxpenthe/pseuds/nxpenthe
Summary: Severa is devoted to a fault.She loves as fiercely as she bites, and her words sting harder than any metal of a sword. Many fear from her, shying away from the fire of her loyalty, and the wrath incurred by those who spur anyone she holds dear.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ahaha, hello, this is my first time actually posting anything on here. I managed to replay Awakening during my time on break and I rekindled my love for the characters, especially Severa. It's only unfortunate, the more I love, the more I tend to dump angst onto a character!

Severa is devoted to a fault.

She loves as fiercely as she bites, and her words sting harder than any metal of a sword. Many fear from her, shying away from the fire of her loyalty, and the wrath incurred by those who spur anyone she holds dear. Even her mother’s Pegasus refuses to stand but a respectful meter of her, whining uncharacteristically as she approaches close.

Cordelia pretends not to notice, patting the cheek of her mare affectionately while stealing a glance at her somber daughter’s father. Her father, catching the glance, swoops in, appearing from the shadows as his dark cape flutters behind, stifling the air behind as though the movement sucked away the energy of the Earth. A cold hand rests on her shoulder, a familiar laughter making its way. “Nya ha, seems like we’re both disliked by your mother’s steed.”

Severa frowns, her face pulled downwards in disappointment. She had always wanted to fly, to feel the same joy that she could hear in Cynthia’s voice as she and Sumia rode in the skies so high above. Cordelia also looked mildly wounded, although the disappointment quickly faded into reassurance instead.

“One day, honey.” She whispers lovingly into Severa’s cheek, picking her up into stable arms and kissing her on the forehead. “One day, we’ll fly.”

\--

That day never comes.

Henry is the first to envelope her in a cold hug, heated only by the tears that leak through painfully squeezed eyelids. A broken cloth emblem is clenched between her fingers, the tattered fabric pressuring to rip as her fingernails dig in.

As much as Severa fought her mother – hated the perfection she so sought from her – she loved her more than anyone could humanly love. It was only through the cold, guiding hands of her father that she learned to open up once more, allowing herself to grow open once again and demand the same type of perfection her mother had strived for.

“I’ll be back soon,” is the last words that her father leaves her with as he clenches the conscript papers in his hand, crumpling the cursed item and tossing it over his shoulder for a crow to snatch. The grin on his face had worn over the years, smile lines creeping through the skin of his still-youthful face. “Remember that we both love you very much.”

Severa had promised to be good. She promised to do well in school, to excel in sports, to stop the ceaseless whispers that echoed because she had the blood of the Grimleal coursing through her veins.

The next time it happens, she’s left alone in the company of crows that perch on every crook of her home. A dark navy tome is handed to her, wrapped securely in the dirtied robe of black and purple. The Exalt kneels on one leg, his right hand supported by the Falchion that digs its way into the dirt of her garden as his other hands her the box containing two metals of valor and a lock of her father’s silver hair.

The Exalt’s handsome features are twisted in apology – pain. She stares at him blankly. Chrom had gotten much older, as though miraculously having aged a century since the start of the new war against the risen dead.

“I’m sorry – ” it’s a start with no finish as Severa takes the box from his hands and holds it against her chest, trembling.

The Exalt stands, “Severa.”

She steps back into the shadows of her abandoned home, letting the darkness eat her completely as the last rays of the setting sun splinter through curtained windows. The door shuts in front of her, the face of Chrom staring in pity, a ring of crows above his head.

\--

Her parents’ union had come as a shock to many.

Cordelia was very definition of an exemplary wonder; she, in addition to unrivaled tenacity and a need for perfection, possessed the physical stamina and strength needed to perform repeated tasks in order to achieve such standards. Even in words, she had an eloquence found in few and envied by many – she nary stuttered or stumbled, and though she hiccupped on rare occasions, those were met by a quick recovery that received the praise of many. She was the living definition of perfection.

Henry, on the contrary, stood tall and thin, a smile carved onto his features as though his muscles were physically incapable of expressing anything else but such. His hair was a shining silver, and pale skin as cold as snow; he possessed the blood of the Grimleal, and a magical power unrivaled. He was imperfection at his finest – many still feared him as the madman of his younger years, and although he had substantially matured over the course of the Great War and subsequent marriage, still gained infamy due to his streak of curses rivaled only by Tharja.

The two could be any less different, and yet, their marriage made perfect sense to those who watched their romance bloom. Severa was born in this outcome, and on her birthdate, a ring of crows that stood guard around her room matched the celebratory circle of Pegasus Knights that stood waiting for their discharge at the hospital. The Exalt and his family even bade them welcome as close friends stood nearby, offering warm meals and advice to the new family.

Severa grew up in the safety of her parent’s arms, protected in a veil of love from skeptical onlookers and friends alike. The whispers, however, refused to cease as her silvery blond hair turned into a fiery red, her mouth permanently locked into a scowl – opposite of her father’s features, although retained his cold hands and affinity for crows. She also managed to her growth spurt faster than than the rest of the children her age, as though a direct consequence of having to prove herself repeatedly, although a nasty inferiority complex seems to have wriggled its developing body into her mind because of it. Her mother demanded perfection and work ethic, a trait that Severa inherited and flourish with great pride.

In simpler terms, she scared many.

“You’re a Grimleal!” Owain had accused her after a particularly nasty brawl. They were eight, barely capable of words, nevertheless motor control, and had ended up wrestling on the grounds of the castle over a petty fight over who gets to play the villain and the hero in their reenactment of the Great War. Severa escaped with a black eye, and Owain a swollen jaw. Brady and Cynthia sat to the side, crying at their inability to stop the fight, and Yarne looked more than a little sheepish as he hid behind the sweeping robes of gentle Lissa and a stern Cordelia.

“Owain!” Lissa stole a glance at Cordelia, one that Severa caught from the corner of her good eye, “That is a horrible thing to say! Apologize at once!”

Owain sniffled, obviously miffed. Severa crinkled her nose, sneer mid-formation before her own mother silently glared at her, motioning only with a lift of her eyebrow to do the same.

She gritted her teeth, fists clenched to the side in apt refusal, a splash of pink coating her cheeks in visible shame. Owain copied, although without blabbering on about fairness and whatnot.

The silent battle lasts only as long as Cordelia’s patience – one that snaps in the form of the silver lance burying itself deep into the grounds of the garden.

Severa gulped in that moment, too afraid to meet her mother’s eyes as Owain huffed, his temper releasing as he scrambled up into a standing position and mumbled a soft apology with crossed arms. Severa bit the inside of her cheeks while she returned the same gesture, although her own hands were stuffed deep inside her pockets.

Her walk home was unpleasant.

The moon shined in tandem with the sun, who’s glowing rays lowered enough to allow the glimmer of the strongest stars to spread through the magenta sky. The gravel path beneath her seemed more interesting than normal.

“He called me a Grimleal,” she grumbled softly, too afraid of her mother to say much more. “We’re not bad. I’m not evil, so I shouldn’t have to play the villain all the time.”

“You are not.” Her mother softens, the edge in her tone dissipating as sadness creeps in its wake. “Many paint what they do not understand in an unfavorable light, and this happens to be the case after the War.” Severa heard the slight hesitation in her mother’s voice match the painful beat of her heart. “It is true, you have the blood of the Grimleal in you.”

Severa felt her skin prickle that day. The cold sweat that suddenly dotted her back, an uncomfortable memory that seared itself deep into her skull.

“But you also have Ylissean blood as well.” Cordelia stopped, placing a gentle hand on Severa’s head before crouching to a similar height. Her eyes have lost the sternness behind them, replaced by a deeper well of love. “What do you think of your father?”

It was no secret Severa adored her father. From his tall lanky figure, to his eccentric jokes, he was as kind as could be, and a doting father to boot. “He’s great,” she mumbled quietly, unable to express her full reverence without the accompanying embarrassment her age guaranteed. “I guess.”

Her mother chuckled. “And Tharja? Noire? What do you think of them?”

Tharja was the strange witch who owned a potions shop that doubled as a bar at night with her husband Gaius. She was the definition of strange – demonic to a point, and incredibly scary just in presence alone. Noire, on the other hand, completely defied her mother in personality. Meek and quiet, she was too scared of her own shadow to even think about hurting a fly.

“Tharja’s weird,” she answered honestly, although she quickly reeled back the candor in favor of a more neutral approach after her mother’s sharpening stare. “But she gave me juice for free one time so she’s nice, or whatever. And Noire’s my best friend.”

Cordelia smiled (a smile that Severa thinks is beautiful and absolutely worthy of all tales of her mother’s visage). “They too have the blood of the Grimleal. Does that make them any different?”

Severa shrugged, “Guess not… So Grimleals aren’t evil?”

“There is no good without evil, Severa. And sometimes, even in the darkest of places, a light exists. Take for example, you,” her mother pokes her lightly on the forehead, chuckling, “Are my light.”

\--

“Severa!”

The tome in her hand glows a deep purple as her fingers curl against the spine. The worn robe surrounds her as she lifts the hood of her robe up to cover her tangled red hair.

“Severa, please!”

Her fingers dance delicately against the text. Low whispers mumble into her ear, a strangled gurgle roughly mimicking a laugh rumbles within her blood, shaking her to the very core. The words form on her lips naturally as her eyes narrow and harden, ignoring the pleas of her soul as her mouth continues to move.

Lucina stands before her, Falchion held between trembling hands.

Morgan touches Severa's hand lightly against her own, skin colder than ice guiding the her through the different lettering. Pretty features twist into an ugly grin as they near the edge. 

The last of the incantations fall through her tongue as she stretches forward, a burst of dark magic thrumming through her arms. It feels hot, darkness thrumming through her arms, leaching off her warmth -- her lifeforce, as she summons the purple flames to dance on broken fingernails until she’s afraid it’s going to consume her whole.

So, her fingers push forward.

Whiplash hits her hard, as though the magic had hit her in the chest instead. She wheezes, suddenly exhausted, dots dancing her vision as she sees a flash of blue burn into the last of her vision.

It’s only by Morgan’s hand against the small of her back she remains standing.


	2. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of a war, a child left broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has started, so the updates will be few and far between until break arrives (even then no guarantees, rip).  
> I love angst, I'm sorry.
> 
> Title from Chopin's Nocturnes.

Severa digs her feet into the sand. The individual grains rest between the space of her toes, immediately soaking any moisture until she could feel the chalkiness of the residue coating her skin all the way up to the bone of her ankle.

Her usual armor of steel and leather is replaced with a lighter attire, one made of darkened silk and airy fibers she still is unable to name. A book rests in her hand, one of magic and spells, a worn letter darkened with age standing from between the ages – despite the signs of wear, the condition of said letter is near immaculate. The edges stood crisp, although the lower left showed the signs of accidental creasing, and a small splatter of blood, an area no larger than a coin, darker than the yellowing edges of age, stained the words written so neatly.

Her mother’s penmanship is perfect. The individual letters printed on paper is meticulous, as if done by machinery – although, Severa doubts any machine could recreate the thin loops of her mother’s “p” or how the “l” swoops up and curls on top in a beautiful mimicry of calligraphy. The physical letter is picturesque, but it’s the expressions of love hidden within the ink that has Severa carrying the letter everywhere she goes, paper carefully folded into a square, tucked inside of her breast pocket. The words carry her mother’s warm voice, speckled with her longing as it speaks of the beauty and quiet of the expansive hills near the borders of Plegia, of how the biting dry dust turns into a stunning wonder when seen from afar.

_Perhaps, one day, we will have the chance to explore the splendors of Plegia together._

Severa isn’t one for irony – the war had toughened her too much to find much humorous anymore – but in this situation, as she looks over the barren lands of sand and desolation, she can’t help but chuckle.

Perhaps her mother would hate her, her father clicking his tongue in disappointment.

Her companions had all since fled, except for a single one who kept her tightly chained, as though a prisoner more so than a friend – though, Severa can’t fault Morgan on that aspect. She isn’t a particularly friendly person. Nevertheless, a flock of crows remain nearby, smart beady eyes providing her guides as she stretches her gloved hand outwards, leather glove providing a seat for the very animal.

“Mom was right,” she says softly. “Plegia is beautiful.”

\--

Severa is seven when she hears the Grimleal have taken control of Plegia once again.

She’s in school, the palm of her hand pressed flat against her cheek as she looks forward, dazed. Her eyes have glazed over, thoughts occupied by her mother’s last letters from the front line instead of the numerous alchemy equations written neatly on the chalkboard by Laurent’s mother. There had been two letters as usual stuffed within the small confines of the carrier. One for her father, detailing all accounts of the new war, one still too young to have been dubbed a name, and a personal letter for her.

“ – Severa, hey!”

A whisper catches her attention. Kjelle leans backwards from the desk in front of Severa (whoever thought putting this giant of a girl in front of her could eat a bag of Pegasus dung), “Hey, listen. Did you hear about the Risen?”

“What about them?” Her words come out biting, much more than she realizes.

Kjelle flashes her a brief sideway grimace. “Some sightings of Risen have popped up close to the border apparently. Saw it in my mom’s report on accident. Apparently they attacked a farm only a couple kilometers from Ylisstol.”

She feels her face flush, a sudden dread crawling up her spine. “You’re lying.”

“I swear to Naga,” Kjelle whispers, flinching. Severa can tell from how her cropped hair jerks briefly to the side “Believe if you want, but I swear it’s the truth!”

“No way – not with Lucina’s dad out there.” Not with her mother, patrolling the skies with her band of Pegasus Knights.

Kjelle frowns, letting go of the conversation reluctantly as the teacher coughs into her fist. Miriel glances over, sharp eyes hidden under the illumination of her glasses. Regardless, Severa feels the scalding burn and sits backwards until her back hits the chair, arms crossed in stubborn defiance.

There was no way stupid zombies could take over Plegia. It’s not like there were any humans left standing after the war with Mad King Gangrel -- Gangrel had been defeated, locked up for thousands of years according to Chrom and Robin and even Naga herself, or whoever the Voice of Naga and whatever cult had confirmed it. The King led resurgence of Plegia’s government had fallen alongside their savior, its carcass as bare as the land it governed. The mass of Plegians left standing had scrambled; most had fled to other nearby lands, majority opting towards neutral Chon’sin where identities were not questioned and strength stood no barrier in regaining livelihood as it did in Regna Ferox. Whoever was left remained poor and uneducated, either unable to give enough gold to afford the fares of boats that carried them to safety during war, or unwilling to desert the land they called home.

It was only through the help of Ylisse’s that Plegia stood again – shaky, unstable. Yet within three years, they managed to make a recovery only thought possible through the blessings of Naga herself. It’s population, however, still remained unstable with frequent attacks from what was left of the Gangrel’s remaining troops.

Severa knew little of the matter – she was only two then when new Plegian royalty, a distant cousin of the Mad King Gangrel named Validar, had introduced themselves formally at the forum of leaders, a day now celebrated by all nations as a holiday known as “Reunion” – and cared little for politics even after looking the definition up in her mother’s old texts.

Nevertheless, the point of the matter is Severa doesn’t believe Kjelle.

Yet, her finger nervously thumbs at her letter through the fabric of her white shirt.

\--

The shrill chime of the bell rings dull in her ears as she stands, warped by worry. If she had calculated correctly, her mother was due to be back in three days. Her letter had arrived yesterday, and Stahl had informed her previously that it took approximately twelve days to deliver from the borders of Plegia. Calculating the twelve days, her mother had left on survey duty over a month, thirty days ago, meaning if she were to subtract the days left –

“Severa?”

Another voice breaks her out of her anxious reverie. The world spins too fast for her as her vision snaps back into focus. The classroom is empty save for Noire who waits anxiously at the doorway. Severa’s eyes jump to the clock.

Twenty minutes after three.

Mumbling a curse word she’s heard her father grumble to himself when he think he’s alone, she hastily throws her belongings into the knapsack, neatly tucking her mother’s letter in between two books to keep it flat. She takes one look at the piece of paper beneath her, mauled by repeated scratches of her pencil in a wild array of numbers and lines of increasing intensity. A dot mars the center, the wood of the desk visible through the lead-tinted hole she’s created in her mania. Great.

Noire stands still, her voice lowering as she speaks in Plegian. “Severa, what were you doing?”

Severa frowns. “It’s… nothing. I was just wondering when my mom would be back is all,” she grumbles back in the other tongue, her face furrowing all the more as Noire’s face falls in pity, lips thinned into a pursed look of apology.

“Your mother is so strong though,” Noire responds back softly. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon, with presents.”

“Yeah, whatever, it’s not like I care,” Severa grumbles again, the Plegian stuttering on her lips as she mixes it in with Ylisstolian, switching to the more familiar language at hand as she stuffs her concerns to the back of her mind and pulls on Noire’s hand, fingers lancing together almost by second nature. “Let’s go. They better still be waiting, or I’ll beat all of them with a sword.”

“That’s not very nice,” Noire chides her softly, clicking her tongue much akin to how Gaius, her father, would when they caught them sneaking behind the bar to pour a glass of juice without permission. She smiles anyways, despite herself, and Severa does too.

“Well, I don’t want to be nice.”

“You are though!”

Severa snorts. “Right.”

“You really are,” Noire mumbles again, switching to Plegian once again as they pass by a group of boys loudly joking with one another. “You’re so nice to me. I’m sorry you have to keep looking out for me all the time.”

“It’s alright, like I said. Don’t keep apologizing all the time. People are going to think you’re weaker than you actually are – or bully you, or steal your money or whatever,” Severa grimaces, cheeks flushing red by default. Even at the age of eight, her ability to take a compliment was on par with a Pegasus’s ability to do complex algorithms. “You’re my best friend.”

Noire smiles that cute little smile of hers that makes Severa’s heart flutter just a little bit. (She desperately hopes the other doesn’t notice, but sometimes Noire does and smiles brighter, and that just makes it even worse for her poor heart thudding painfully against her chest).

“A-Alright,” Severa grumbles again, her nose pointed towards the sky in a look of mock impatience that she uses to mask the embarrassment that grows quickly, burning her ears red as she does so. “Let’s go before they come looking for us. We can’t be late for practice.”

“Okay!”

\--

Severa doesn’t have many friends. She has her group of childhood friends, children of parents who fought the first war with her mother. Yet she grew especially close with Noire of all people, much to everybody’s surprise.

But Noire is special.

She is partly Plegian – just like Severa.

It helped that they were born in the same year; Tharja had cursed the entire time apparently, in a literal sense it seemed as Gaius, Noire’s unfortunate father, was inflicted by an entire week’s worth of sniffling for the “Grima-like pain” that he had forced her to endure. Maribelle never got over the damage Tharja caused to the hospital wing either. Nevertheless, despite the warmth exuding from Gaius and his often silly antics, Noire had inherited her mother’s white complexion and brooding personality. It surprised little that the children around her were scared of her – Tharja was, _is_ , terrifying after all, and the charm given to Noire by her to cure her meekness did nothing to alleviate the fear as the latter would go off into unstoppable rampages.

Cure her meekness it did, but the charm did the opposite in the realm of sociability.

“Go say hello,” her mother had pushed Severa at the age of five, gently steering her towards a girl playing by herself in the corner of the garden.

“H-He—”

Noire shrieked, ducking away from her outstretched hand by covering her face with already lanky arms. She cowered, crouched behind a spotty berry bush in an awful attempt to hide.

Severa flared in her usual manner. Fisted hands press against her waist, mimicking her mother’s usual scolding position, lips curled into an unpracticed attempt at a scornful scowl. “I’m just trying to say hi!”

(Far behind, Tharja pinched the bridge of her nose, grumbling the many different curses that would hurt, but not permanently damage, a child. Cordelia smiled awkwardly in apology).

Shoving her hand deep into her pocket, Severa rummaged a piece of candy, quickly crouching besides Noire to shove a closed fist directly in front of her face.

(Tharja’s incantations intensified all the while).

Noire had shrieked again, much to Severa’s recalled annoyance, but she remained crouched, hand still waiting for the other to at least look in her direction.

It happened eventually – she remembered a painfully numb arm, forced into position by greater stubbornness and pure will. Noire opened one eye. Severa caughted the tears visibly lining the lower lid of her eye.

“Open your palm,” Severa called gruffly, free hand scratching at her lower back. “It’s chocolate.”

“Ch-Chocolate?”

It had been easy from there. Severa had quite literally bribed Noire’s friendship with candy, the latter having inherited her father’s incorrigible sweet-tooth, much to the chagrin of her bristling mother. Nevertheless, Severa had continuously used chocolates and other sweets on Noire, like apples to her mother’s Pegasus, until her now best-friend could talk to her without apologizing. Or screaming. Or running.

And then they were inseparable.

The two had learned Plegian as well, a tongue that Tharja had injected into Noire through the use of persuasion and force (“It’s easy to learn if that’s the only thing spoken at home! Mother doesn’t even let father talk in Ylisstolian at home, so he’s forced to learn with me,” Noire had admitted one day when Inigo had asked. “It’s sort of nice spending time with him, but I feel bad. He’s bad at Plegian and gets cursed a lot until he remembers. B-But, mother is nice about it! The spells usually… last only a day…”)

Severa had inherited through her Plegian father as well, although much more gently. Her mother had actually been the one more adamant about its usages while her father had simply smiled that smile of his and responded with a short familiar laugh.

“If you say so, Cordy,” he had responded as Severa sat on his lap, tugging at his shirt to signal to him to start bouncing his knee. “Sev seems eager as well.”

“It’ll be useful in realm of the court – Severa’s ability in bilingualism will greatly enhance her ability to serve, in addition to—”

Her mother had prattled on all the logistics, one that left Severa incredibly bored and eventually dozing on her father’s lap and her father a little tired until he stopped her with a pat to her head. “It’s time for the little one to go to bed now, so we can discuss the curriculum tomorrow! I leave it to you, great knight.”

The language had come naturally, thankfully, as it turned out Severa was greatly talented in the realm of linguistics (one of the only things she could boast – her mother had little ability in Plegian, so Severa huffed her chest proudly when she started speaking at a speed at which Cordelia could no longer keep up with).

The others in their ragtag group had been in awe with Noire’s and her ability to speak the language. Lucina and Morgan, strangely enough, seemed to understand majority of the conversation, although their lack of speaking ability stopped them from responding as quick mutterings were swapped in the foreign tongue. Nevertheless, Severa liked being able to talk in a “secret” language, one that only her and her best friend understood.

It felt like a secret that only the two of them could know about.

But even all the words in the world, all the languages in the universe, couldn’t describe the feelings she’d get when she smiled and Noire and Noire smiled back with that lovely grin of hers; the fireworks started in her stomach, growing larger and larger until they exploded into her chest, the flames pulling her lips upwards until she felt the whole universe spin at her feet.

It’s a selfish desire to want to have secrets for herself and Noire, but Severa knows she’s a selfish person.

\--

It only seemed right that nothing would go right for Severa though.

They walk towards the front of the school, hand in hand, fingers interlaced as they head towards their group. She had long forgotten the math that tore her head apart earlier, and concentrated on making Noire laugh instead.

Owain is the first to great them when they finally do arrive. His palm flat, parallel against the sky as his arm extends upwards. The other one is shaped into a fist, pressed against his hip as he grins at the two of them before launching into a lengthy tirade.

“My heroes, my chosen fellows, my warriors of light –”

“Let’s go,” Nah deadpans, pushing Owain lightly to the side before allowing him to teeter back so she could tug on his sleeve to get him to move. “Lucina, Laurent, and Gerome are already waiting for us.”

Yarne files in behind Nah and Owain, opting to always stay in the center and closer to Kjelle. The boy had always been nervous, but Severa couldn’t blame him. He had lost his mother before he could even say her name and had always been skittish ever since. It didn’t help that no one really knew the cause of her death, except that her body had been found in the fields, bloodied.

Severa always felt bad for him, but his father was a nice enough guy who obviously loved Yarne – even if he still couldn’t speak Ylisstolian without tripping up on his words and mixing up the grammar all the time.

“You think we might see some Risen?” Yarne mumbles nervously, twitching as a chill runs down his body, eyes flicking from side to side.

“No way,” Inigo says confidently, laying a hand on the taguel’s shoulder before giving him a comforting grin. “And even if they are, we’re going to protect you!”

Noire smiles at that, a tiny shy smile that Severa catches from the corner of her eye, and her heart drops just a little bit.

“You’re definitely gonna be the first to bolt,” Severa bites instead, feeling a little better when Inigo’s smile drops, tongue sticking out in her direction in response. That feeling quickly disappears when Noire squeezes her hand a little harder than normal, expression following that of the boy’s frown.

It’s when moments like these happen, Severa understands she’s nothing like Noire at all. If only she had the words to express the feelings, she would.

But that would come later.

“Severa?”

A tall man with swooping hair stands at the gates of the school. His armor is on, horse to his side as he looks at her with almost nervous eyes, as though afraid.

She recognizes Stahl almost immediately. He’s kind, and funny, and he’s often at her house entertaining her mom with the harp they both play. He looks older though, without the look of gentle thoughtfulness in his eyes, lines worn on his face as though carved there but a much greater force than one she’s capable of imagining.

“Hi?”

“Severa,” he exhales. “I’m sorry but I’m going to need you to follow me. Do you mind?”

The question is more of a demand. Severa straightens immediately, a creeping sense of fear crawling into her heart as her back straightens, the hair of her neck and arm rising as goosebumps scatter across bare skin. She barely processes Noire squeezing her hand painfully before she’s forced to let go, allowing Stahl to pick her up and place her on his horse as the others say their hasty, confused goodbyes.

The rest happens in a blur.

She doesn’t remember it quite well.

She doesn’t want to remember it at all.

Stahl’s horse is fast. Fast enough to get her at her house in time to see her father fall to his knees, stooped in the garden where they had just recently planted her mother’s favorite flowers, head bowed between slumped shoulders. A Pegasus knight is nearby – one of her mother’s subordinates. Severa notices the lack of an emblemed fabric gracing the back of her mount.

Stahl pulls her off the horse. She steps cautiously into her home, trailed closely by the man until she’s in arms distance of her father.

There’s a blur, a hug so tight that it beats the air from her lungs as warm lips press against her forehead, cold fingers digging almost painfully into her back as her father holds her in an embrace that she’s never felt before. It’s one that leaves her empty instead of warm, one that has her frightened instead of secured. Her head lifts into the clouds, mind traveling higher and higher as her own arms stay pressed against her side, paralyzed with the unknown.

She can feel it than.

The sense of loss.

Her heart breaks a little more, crumbling into pieces below her feet as tears press against the corner of her eyes.

“Your mother is gone.”

Severa knows before she hears.

Her father never cries, even for the greatest of tragedies.

Severa watches him fall apart for the first time.

“We’ll be okay,” he says through forced halting breaths. They sound like lies.

Comforting lies.

But it doesn’t stop her from breaking.

\--

The weather is warm and sunny, much like that day.

There’s been enough death in her life to know that it isn’t associated with just rainy days and cloudy skies. Death comes with the paling sunshine, or the bright full moon. Death comes when it wants, sliding between conspicuously until it’s too late to stop the tendrils of its power from curling around your feet, sliding up your waist, until its stolen the very breath you breathe and pulled you down to the other.

Severa is no stranger to death – she is a harbinger and is guilty of murder.

The sand is no longer warm.

Her toes had soaked up as much heat as they could, the temperature enough for her to feel the cool leather of her sandals as she slips them back on.

She had inherited her father’s cool body. Lucina had joked long ago that she was cold-blooded, but Severa could believe that as truth.

(It scares her that she can barely remember the sound of Lucina’s laughter anymore).

Plegia’s royal castle is smaller than Ylisstol’s, but the grandeur still matched. They were made of stone, however, to entrap the cold. It was more open to Ylisstol’s as well, with large swooping openings, a large platform near the top where they could look upon the land without needing a mirror as the sand hardly reached a room so high (much higher than an archer’s arrow could land).

Gold drapery decorated the rooms, red and gold and a dark purple mixing to dot the hallways; it was decadent, lavish, and beautiful. Swirls of gold hand sewn into the fabric of purple, bordered by a red so deep Severa had been speechless the first the she laid eyes on such décor.

She enters the open-sky study, its retractable roof opened to let in the full rays of sun.

“Severa, you’re back.”

Morgan sits in the center with a book in hand, dressed in a gown similar to her own, body protected by the plush chair made of bird feathers and down. Her hair is longer, waves of blue passing her shoulders down to the top of her chest. She had grown much taller, almost equivalent to Lucina’s height, and more beautiful as well. A smile dons her face, however, one large enough to hide the broken lunacy behind the glow of her eyes.

Severa imagines that same smile on her face as she slides forward, body pressed tightly against warm body, lips pressed against the younger girl’s forehead before sliding to the corner of her mouth.

“I’m back.”

Morgan’s fingers trace around her waist.

She thinks of how Lucina held her so gentle and firm. Morgan’s touch is frantic and scared.

Maybe Morgan felt how Severa’s body betrayed her as well, of how her lips sighed another’s name.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who the father's are!!! I'm joking, but yes, I'm sorry for ending on such a depressing note rip.


End file.
